A Myth and Ciprofloxacin

No, not a true life story.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I looked at the man pointing the gun at my head with bulging eyes. Sweat was further darkening the ski mask he wore on his head that left spaces for his two eyes and mouth. His nostrils, though not visible, were flared in anger as I sat firmly on the bench of the danfo bus, not moving or even planning to move. I knew his nostrils were flared because his chest rose and fell rapidly and of course, I could see them expanding with each second I remained on the seat. I also knew he had not pulled a trigger before. I would be dead or seriously injured if he had. But all this did not count. Only in death would people know my shame.

See, it is not my intention to continue to aggravate this thief. On a normal day, when I am with my dignity and senses, nothing will make me more obedient than seeing a masked man wielding a murder weapon and pointing it in my direction, threatening to end my life with a twitch of muscle.

“GET THE FUCK DOWN FROM THIS FUCKING BUS OR I WILL FUCKING BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS ALL OVER THIS FUCKING BUS!”

I did not move. Tears clouded my vision as I pointed my bag at him as I had done for the past two minutes he had been raving.

“Please, I beg you in the name of God, take my bag. Everything is inside.”

Shame is a serious issue for me. Even slight embarrassment. Once, I had fallen terribly ill to the bafflement of the school nurse who found nothing to be the cause of my illness, just because a boy in my secondary school four years ago had told me that my skirt was unzipped. I had thought the whole thing through a million times in my head, wondering if he saw the holes that stood as Winnie the Pooh’s eyes on my panties (which my mother had promised to replace the next visiting day) that showed clearly when I turned to look at my open skirt zip. So, you see, I might just slump and die if anybody discovered me now, no need for trigger-happy fingers.

The driver had fled earlier at the sound of gunshots, just about two minutes after the conductor had left for the nearby bushes to ‘ease’ himself and left five frightened passengers struggling to open the door of the rickety bus to no avail. The moon and the stars had fled too, leaving us with no option than turn on the flashlight applications our mobile phones for illumination. There were no passers-by at this time and most especially in this location where the driver had passed to cut corners.  The driver side of the bus was demarcated from the passengers’ side by a metal sheet with a window too small for any of us to fit through. The fair guy that sat beside me had begun to whimper, all thoughts of collecting my mobile phone number completely forgotten. The mechanic in his dirty overalls had fiddled with the door, cutting his fingers in the process and when he finally got the door open, the masked man was there waiting patiently, pointing his gun at the entrance. The middle-aged woman sitting at the last row had screamed and the boy with a wooden tray on his lap that had probably held agege bread in the morning had begun to cry. The thief had ordered us to lie face flat on the floor of the bus, gotten crazy when I refused to move as others were lying in awkward and uncomfortable positions, and exploded when I continued to plant my buttocks on the seat. This is where we are now and my mother’s voice is ringing repeatedly in my ears.

If you have sex, you will die.

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

Just three days ago, my boyfriend of two years dis-virgined me. He had waited long enough and I knew all the love he showed was no joke, (marriage tinz). It had been planned and I had taken the Postinor 2 he bought as he told me to but pregnancy was not what I should have been worried about. I had noticed an infection yesterday. Not sexually transmitted, no. I dis-virgined him too. Apparently, he pushed bacteria from my ‘backward’ into my ‘frontward’, at least that was what the pharmacist with the pitiful look on her face told me.

E. coli belongs in the rectum and goes crazy elsewhere. The female reproductive tract included. The trip from the first point to the second is very short in females, thus, we are very very susceptible.

I had spent about two thousand naira to purchase the drugs I needed to get well and I had called my boyfriend and told him. Of course he was sorry and felt guilty but I shushed and assured him I knew precautions for next time. Looks like there wouldn’t be and my mother had been right after all.

I had started taking the drugs immediately; the pharmacist even gave me the water I used for my first dose free of charge. Urination was frequent and painful. Thank heaven I was home due to ASUU strike. All those busybody roommates of mine would have asked me questions. My mother had sent me on an errand to Oshodi and traffic had been bad as usual, resulting in this situation. The noises in my stomach started shortly after my fourth dose this afternoon, right before I left home, and just like the ciprofloxacin leaflet said, my stool was loose. So loose, it felt like I was urinating via my anus. Four more days, I thought to my self, four more days.

I remembered the first time I wet myself during the journey home. The fair boy had faked a British accent and I had burst into laughter despite my state of duress. The smell of antibiotics filled my nostrils and I bit my lip hoping he was as stupid as he sounded. Subsequent ones had followed which I couldn’t help as the traffic dragged on. I was comforted by the fact that I had a permanent scarf in my bag. I would wrap it around my waist when the time came for me to get off. And I also thanked heaven for the darkness, I would walk the short distance home from my bus stop in the shadows. I would tell mom that her vegetable soup did not go well with me today.

It was when the rumbling began that I knew I was in trouble and told the idiot to leave me in peace. I resorted to insults hoping he would change seats, but he just sat there, giving the condition that unless I gave him my phone number, he would not leave me. As horns honked and drivers screamed, I let out a fart whose sound was drowned by the ongoing noise but whose release brought my doom for it was accompanied by loose stools. And that, my friends, is why I cannot, must not, stand from this seat.

“I WILL COUNT TO FIVE.”

“Please. I beg you.”

“ONE.”

“Please.”

“TWO.”

“I am sick. I cannot stand.”

“THREE.”

“In the name of God.”

“FOUR.”

“JESUS.”

My mother voice was the last thing I thought of.

 

 

Pick ciprofloxacin.
Pick ciprofloxacin.

 

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The Mess Theory

Hehe..this was based on an actual conversation. I drowned in paroxysms of laughter writing this and the hope is that same would happen to you.
I’m safe now, no longer drowning by the way.

Goodevening Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to another episode of World’s Greatest Mysteries. I’m your host, Mr Aljanusi AKA Janus AKA Chris the Corper AKA Doctor AKA Biology Teacher AKA Uncle AKA Mr-Too-Gbasky-Swagged-Out-Above-Everybody-Apart-From-Tunechi-But-Including-Durella-Trey-Songz-And-Tywin-Lannister. Today, we’ll be talking about one of the most famous mysteries in the modern world.
No, it is not the question of who really stole the meat from the cooking pot, or what’s under GEJ’s hat, we know those already. Today we shall discuss…*drum roll and theme song from Aboki rmx*
WHO MESS AM?

*crowd applause*
Our guest on the show today, is none other than our friend and loyal fan of this blog, Mr H., G-man, Philosopher, Postulator of the Pseudo-HIV theory. Mr H. say hi.

Mr H.: Hi.*picks nose*

Janus: Now, I’m sure this is not the first time most of us have been confronted with this question. Most of us have heard this question asked quite a lot in our formative years, and when we were kids. Often time, the answers have not always been favourable and on other occasions, they have brought us quite a bit of pain and malodorous discomfort. The question of who messed am has troubled for ages, but today, we have a solution,

*crowd applause*

DJ, please..

“Who mess am?”
“Na Odo!
Odo say, na Teacher.
Teacher say, No worry, na my class people mess am..”

Okay. So today, we’ll be discussing and putting this conundrum to rest. The question of who messed it. Mr H?

Mr H.: Okay. Well, it’s not as though I mess oh..

Janus: Of course we know that, you’re only here for..

Mr H.: I know why I’m here. Let me talk..

Janus: Okay..

Mr H.: Now, from the song, I would like to identify the characters in this little mystery. First, we have the Teacher, then we have..

Janus: Odo

Mr H.: (¬_¬)

Janus: Sorry.

Mr H.: Yes, we have Odo, then we have the class pipo. However, there is one more player here who is almost always forgotten..

Janus: I know!

Mr H.: Yes?

Janus: Fabregas!

Mr H.: (¬_¬) idjit!

Janus: Sorry. (-_____-)

Mr H.: Whenever people sing that song, Odo is mentioned, and the Teacher, and he then accuses the class people. Everyone forgets that this song was gotten from the conversation of two different people.
First we have the One who asked; that first man who asked, “Who mess am?” (Everybody forgets that first man) and then, the rest of the song which goes, “Na Odo…” and so on, which is the reply! So we have basically, a song between two people, a song of reply and asker. Like the Song of Ice and Fire which was rebranded Game of Thrones in the TV series, the real name for the “Who mess am?” song is, “A Song of Reply and Asker!”

Janus: OMG!

*crowd Applause*

Janus: OMG! Wow..

Mr H.: *looks smug*

Janus: How did you..?

Mr H.: I put in research..

*crowd applause*

Janus: Brilliant! We’ll go now for a break and when we come back, we’ll examine the characters of each of the players.

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Janus: And we’re back. In case you just joined us, we have with us today, Mr H., legendary Theorist and we are discussing the question of Who Mess am? Mr H. you were saying that the entire song is based on a conversation between a Reply and an Asker?

Mr H.: You see, the Replier and the Asker were obviously two individuals who knew themselves. And from the indications, they also knew Odo, the Teacher and the class pipo.

Janus: So it’s safe to assume that the scenario which the Replier described in answer to the question could actually have occurred?

Mr H.: Of course! In fact, let me paint the scenario for you.
The person who asked the question, the Asker was a man…

Janus: A man? Why? Why not a woman?

Mr H.: Because only a man would have asked such a question with that much conviction. You have to understand that this is a Nigerian song, which has obvious Calabar origins based on the name “Odo” used in the song. And since it is an old song, and involved a period where there were schools in Calabar, we can safely put the time of origin of this song at about 1922-1929, a time unlike now when Women’s liberation is on the rise, a time when only a man could have spoken thus!

*standing ovation*

Mr H.: So as I was saying, in Calabar then, there was obviously a fart which had been of such malodorous content that the entire city had perhaps heard about it. It is my belief that if proper research is carried out, we’ll find ancient records of this fart. The fart that started it all.
So, on that day, the man, the Asker, asked a woman who it was that messed. “Who mess am?” Now, without hesitation, the woman who was obviously Yoruba, (they have the sharpest tongues), instantly replied that it was Odo!

Janus: She was convinced!

Mr H.: Yes! She was! But you see, this was not the first time that Odo had been accused!

Janus: Idonbilivit! Really?

Mr H.: Yes! You see, instantly she went on to narrate that “Odo say na Teacher..” which indicates that Odo was asked at an earlier time and had instantly gone ahead to accuse the Teacher. The Teacher was, apparently also asked and whoever the Teacher was, he accused his Class pipo. From the line, “Na my class pipo mess am”, you detect surety, certainty and a hint of malevolence towards the Class pipo.

Janus: Obviously, the Teacher had something against his class

Mr H.: Yes he did.

Janus: We’ll go for a break now and when we come back, we’ll take calls.

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Janus:That was from Dr Kizito enterprises. The drug is a powerful one. I have used it myself and it worked for me. In fact I still use it. You should try it.
Okay, we have a caller on the line..

@Mfkeed: So who messed?

Mr H.: The truth is, from the song, one would assume it was Odo. Since from all indications he was already a mess suspect. One may also assume it was the Class pipo, considering the certainty with which the Teacher spoke, the possibility that the class had probably farted in his presence before, which probably occasioned for his vexation with them, and the fact that they never denied it. But the truth is, the person who messed that fart was Odo’s wife.

Janus: O_O huh? Who??

Mr H.: Odo’s wife.
On that day, the first reason why people suspected Odo was because the odour of that mysterious fart came from his house! Odo was a man of few words, we can see that from his very sparse denial in the song. “Na teacher..” It was only his misfortune to be saddled with a shrewish wife whom he loved and protected. A wife who then went on to accuse him.

Janus: So Odo’s wife was..

Mr H.: Do not forget, this song is between two people. The Replier and the Asker.

Janus: …the Yoruba woman! A Yoruba woman messed the fart of History!

Mr H.: You said it.

Janus: So when asked who mess am? The answer should be “A Yoruba woman”?

Mr H.: -_____-

Janus: Wow.

*crowd applause..standing Ovation*

With us today has been one of the most enlightening young men I have ever met. Thank you for gracing us with your presence. We did plan to talk a bit about Pseudo-HIV today, but we’ll leave that for another day. Thank you sir! And from the rest of us here at All in this Life’s journey.., it’s goodbye and have a wonderful day.

*screen fades out*

Mr H.: *farts* Who did that??

DISCLAIMER
*
Err..I have nothing against the very honourable people of Cross River state or Yorubaland. The err..post just err..oh look, Airplane!
* You would also note that Mr H’s views are solely his and not the err..opinions of this blog.
* I don’t think it was Odo’s wife. The butler did it! -____-

PS: Odo’s birthday is today. You can find him on Facebook. He went to FGC Ijanikin.

Hehe..follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni..and you can follow Mr H. @Bitnovocaine..

Aha!

Peace.